


Writings of the Lore Realm

by HebrewPrincess91



Series: Chronicles of the Lore Realm [2]
Category: Lore (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Arthurian, Complete, Fantasy, Gen, Magic, Original Mythology, Role-Playing Game, Visions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-21
Updated: 2016-10-21
Packaged: 2018-08-23 20:13:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8341213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HebrewPrincess91/pseuds/HebrewPrincess91
Summary: Writings based on the mythology of the RPG Lore.





	1. Visions, Part I - Camlann & Consequences

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Each segment is a different vision that conveyed some meaning about the Lore Realm to the dreamer.

The man sprang from his horse onto the quintain dummy. He was athletic, dark, and had an attractive quality about him. His long hair was tied back in a braid that swayed as he balanced on the quintain. Swiftly, he drew an arrow and fired it at the willow wand across the yard, splitting it neatly.

 

"Great shot!" exclaimed a young man that came riding up behind him. "You really are marvelous, you know." He flashed a winning smile. The dark haired man smiled sweetly in response, nimbly posing on the slowly rotating dummy.

"Practice makes perfect," he said as he adjusted his footing.

 

His foot slipped, the quintain listed wildly. He fell. The sky darkened unexpectedly. The gloomy sky saw him lying there, dirty and bloodstained. There was a fire in the distance, and a thick, choking, smoke filled the air. Battle was raging all around. As far as the eye could see there were people in a desperate struggle for their lives.

 

* * *

 

Mordred ran through a dark city street. His breathing was shallow, his heart racing. The noise from the crowd that was following him grew nearer as he ran. It was an angry, buzzing sound. Confused, he kept running, in his hand he gripped a spear, his eyes rapidly searching for a way out. To the left was an entrance to an alleyway. He turned sharply and barreled down the dark alley, dodging debris that littered the cobblestone street. Glancing over his shoulder he saw the smoke and flickering that meant only one thing; the city was on fire!  
  
Putting on a burst of speed he could hear noise from his pursuers; he had to get out of here! Heart thudding, pushed to the limit he felt his strength leave him. A surge of fear welled up within him as his eyes blacked out. He crumpled to the street. Falling, his spear pinned underneath his body, a sickening dread swept over him. His strength was gone, all was lost. He couldn’t get away, he couldn’t make it right. Numbly he tightened his grip on the spear—

 

* * *

 

Mordred silently descended the last few steps into the lowest level of the church. It was quiet, and the dampness of the room seemed to seep into him causing him to shiver from the chill. His eyes drifted over the silent tombs that lined the walls. Dampness condensed on the walls, oozing down the stone in eerie patterns. His heart was racing, he knew he would only be safe down here for so long.

 

The tombs were new, the gisant images showed the restful deceased. The depictions appeared peaceful, their final repose giving no hint to the fury and the struggle they had lived and died in. As Mordred drew nearer to the closest tomb his mouth went dry. The graved image looked horrifyingly familiar. Drawing closer, he began to feel a sense of foreboding as he looked for an inscription. His heart caught as he located it. It was written in clear Latin: _Galahad, Knight of the Round Table_ _._ He began to feel as though his heart were constricting as he looked with dread at the next tomb. It’s inscription read _Guinevere_ _._ Not too far away another read _Morgana_ , another _Kay_ , next to it _Gawain_. His eyes racing wildly around the chamber, more names _Lancelot_ _,_ _Percival_ _,_ _Tristain_ _,_ _Bedivere, Valiant_ _._ Names of knights, maidens and squires, other relatives and friends were written on even more tombs.

 

Mordred raced across the crypt from tomb to tomb. Everyone he knew, everyone he loved, was here; dead and buried. His throat was tight, he couldn’t believe this had happened. This was all his fault, he wasn’t good enough to save them. If he’d been better, if he’d been faster, wiser, this wouldn’t have happened. he came to the far side of the room, his steps faltering as he saw the last tomb. Beneath a statue of a woman with outspread hands was a tomb with the figure of a regal man on the lid. Mordred knew who it had to be even before he read the inscription. _Here Lies_ _Arthur, King of the Britons_ _, Rest in Peace_. Mordred felt as though the room were spinning, his vision narrowed in on the statue, his breathing was shallow.

 

* * *

 

Mordred squeezed his eyes tight shut. Desperately, he tried to imagine himself as part of the giant fir tree he was currently inhabiting. In the distance he could just make out the rugged cries of those who were hunting him.  
  
Trying to keep his breathing quiet, Mordred stayed frozen and immobile as he clung to the matriarch of the forest. Perspiring with the effort, Mordred was chilled by the wintry breeze that ruffled the branches. He made a feeble attempt to force his body not to shiver, but his anxious and frigid limbs did not comply.  
  
The crowd was drawing nearer now. It was most certainly one of the many bands of raiders that roamed the countryside and wreaked havoc on the innocent.  
  
Mordred gulped down the guilt that momentarily threatened to overwhelm him. The raiders were a symptom of the lawlessness and disorder he had brought onto the land, and now they were hunting him.  
  
Mordred opened his eyes. The raiders were within sight now, their glowing lanterns and flickering torches casting light on their grim countenances. "Keep looking" one of them barked as she gestured around the forest floor. "There could be traces, we must not miss this opportunity."  
  
One of her more surly looking cohorts nodded and began searching a nearby thicket. Her other compatriots began combing the ground for clues, holding their lights high so that a hiding person might be revealed.  
  
Momentarily, Mordred was glad that he was wearing his customary hunter green, it's dark hue helping him blend into the shadowy arms of his piney fortress. Mordred’s arms were beginning to ache. He didn't know how long he would be able to keep his pose. His left leg was starting to go numb with cold and the strain of staying so still.  
  
The raiders still showed no signs of abandoning the area soon. Mordred’s limbs began to protest vigorously. Mordred had no choice, something had to give. The raiders were close to the bottom of the tree now. He knew if he moved he would certainly be spotted. Some of the thugs were even beginning to look up, holding their torches as high as possible.  
  
Though his foot was numb, he could feel it beginning to slide. His arms began to tremble violently. One of the raiders, suspecting the tree had something to hide, cast his torch into the air so the light might reveal what was hidden.  
  
Mordred’s foot slipped, his hand releasing it's hold due to the unexpected jolt. He knew he had to act now---

 

* * *

 

Mordred was roughly pushed into the dark cell. He tumbled across the flagstones and just lay there as the door was slammed shut behind him. The bolt shot with a creak and the footsteps of his captor retreated.

 

Mordred didn't know how long he lay there. Time seemed to stop. The darkness crawled over him. He didn't want to move, what would be the point? His life was over, it had been over since That Day. Now he was trying to outrun the inevitable. Like trying to outrun a tsunami. Pointless. An effort in futility.  
  
He didn't even know why he bothered running anymore. It just wasn't in his nature to give up, he guessed. That's why he kept going, even though the smart thing would be to abandon his past altogether and find a different life. Even as he lay there, contemplating giving up for what seemed the thousandth time, he knew he wouldn't, it just wasn't in him.  
  
A breeze swept across his back causing him to shiver. His clothes were thinner now, than they had been. So was he. Since That Day it had been difficult. He knew he could only take so much of this. At a certain point it wouldn't matter if he wanted to give up or not, he would simply give out and cease to be.  
  
The breeze swept over him again. This time his curiosity was piqued. There was no light in the cell and he couldn't tell where such a breeze might come from. He rose gingerly. He was sore after the encounter that had brought him here. He felt his way to the wall and found a window positioned just higher than was comfortable to reach. He grabbed the bars and stretched to put his face against the rusty iron that separated him from the world.  
  
Cool air wafted over his face, clouds obscured the sky and all around was dark. Mordred was alone. He'd been alone since That Day, but right now he felt it more sharply than ever before. The breeze was cold and silent, lurking with danger and devoid of hope. No one was coming to rescue him. No one was out there, praying for his safety. That Day had been the last day of his life. So much had been needlessly lost.  
  
Releasing the bars, Mordred sank to the floor. Wrapping his arms around his thin form he closed his eyes. He was alone, and for now he was defeated.

 

* * *

 

The wind wailed and howled. Rain slammed into the windows and pounded on the roof. It tried to get in with all it's might. Dripping from the eaves it pooled on the ground near the foundation. Everywhere it lurked, attempting to gain entry. If it could only get in, those inside would see its usefulness. Water was good and helpful. Storms were good things, sometimes. The stormy weather was cleansing the land, driving out the drought and famine. Storms were good. Water was good. Why didn't they see that? Why did they try to keep it out?


	2. Visions, Part II - Robin Hood Days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Each segment is a different vision that conveyed some meaning about the Lore Realm to the dreamer.

To have a purpose. He had almost forgotten how good it felt. Perched at the fringes of the greenwood, Robin lay in wait. To have a life with some meaning, that was important beyond all else. He had almost forgotten that, as the years passed by.

 

He was waiting, the thieves would be passing by any moment now. An arrow was knocked on his bowstring, he just had to be patient. The sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon, the sky was a deep crimson.

 

Robin adjusted his tunic. The lincoln green was so similar to the hunter green he usually favoured. Dew was soaking into his clothing, but he didn't mind, he just had to wait a while more. A small part of him regretted not telling the others what he was about. It was better this way, he didn't need their help, he was capable of doing it alone. Besides, they would only get hurt. That's what happened to those who got too near, they got hurt.

 

Robin wasn't about to let that happen. They deserved better than his weakness. He wouldn't betray them with his impotence. They had taken him in, now he would protect them against all comers, alone if need be.

 

The thieves would be here any second, they would get what was coming to them. He had the power to face them, no one else had to be here, no one else would get hurt. The sound of tromping feet alerted him to the presence of a traveler. This is it, he thought, and pulled back on the string of his bow.

 

* * *

 

Robin knew he should have brought help. He had ignored his better judgment and now he was here. Awaiting the gallows at dawn. It was better this way, he supposed, no one else was getting hurt, it was all on him.  
  
He reclined in his filthy cell. The straw on the floor provided little warmth or comfort. A mouse scurried over his foot, but he didn't flinch. He had never been bothered by the little beasts.  
  
Restlessly, he rose and began pacing. The waiting was unbearable. It was a hard thing for a man to prepare for his certain death.

 

A noise sounded outside his cell, someone was approaching. He concealed himself by the door, perhaps this would be his chance. A wild hope flared in his breast as he waited the interminable age for the door to open.  
  
There was some quiet conversation on the other side of the door. Then it swung open and a person stepped into the cell. Before he could act the clear voice of a maiden called into the dark "Robin?"

 

Marian. She stood there in the deep gloom. Swathed in a dark cloak, her hair veiled, a basket on her arm. "I'm allowed to bring you some food, they said only a woman would be permitted to visit." She got straight to business. Robin felt a rush of affection for her, she was so bold. "They searched the food," she continued, "but they didn't search me, they wouldn't dare." Her voice was a rapid whisper.  
  
"Are you sure it's safe?" Robin couldn't bear the thought of Marian in danger.  
  
"No, but for you it's worth it."


End file.
